Overwatch One-Shots
by T0PH4T
Summary: You arrive in your room to an unwelcome (if pleasent) surprise. A misleading self-insert oneshot, told in second person. A birthday present for a good friend. Now a series of self-insert one-shots, still told in second person.
1. Australian Happenstance

You walk back to your room, legs leaden and arms aching. You'd find some clever alliteration to describe your head and back but honestly they just feel like pain. Zarya forgets that not everyone is an ex-olympian, so she pushed you harder than she should've. Mercy took care of you, but echoes of tearing muscles still flash through your mind.

You can't wait to just lay down in a bath and forget about the day.

Once you get to your room, you notice it's gone dark. Funny. You usually don't bother turning your lights off. You fumble in the dark, looking for the switch. Once the lights come on, your jaw drops in shock.

Six and a half feet of Australian criminal rests on your bed, posed. His left arm props up his head, a shit eating grin staring you down. His right leg (the peg-leg) is bent, the end hidden just behind his other knee.

He's also in the brief, which sends blood flowing to your head and...

Other places.

"Hello, lovely," he says, a giggle coming up, high and manic. "Aren't you turning an ace shade of red?" He adds a wink you know you didn't teach him.

You're stuck in place for a moment. Then a few more. His smile falls, and he moves back to a sitting position.

"This was a bit much, weren't it? How far off am I? Did I completely bugger it?" His red eyes loose their amusement and have settled into apologetic. "C'mon, don't leave me hanging."

You sigh and ball in your eyes. "It's not this. This," you wave a hand in his general direction, "is fine. It's just, I've had a _very_ long day, and I don't think I'm up for much." I smile apologetically. "Though I've come home to worse sights on my bed."

Junkrat shrugs and levers himself up. You never notice how tall he is in the field. He's always hunched over, RIP-tire on his back and concussion mines arching his spine. It's only when you're both alone, free from work, that he can pull himself straight up.

"Even if ya don't wanna fool around, could we, I dunno," he's fumbling for words. "Read or watch something on the idiot box?" You recognize an olive branch when you see one, and smile. It's good to have a partner that understands limits.

"First I'll need a bath," you say, "and then yes, we can absolutely watch something." You turn into your bathroom and start stripping down. While you're running your bath, you realize that Junkrat is still naked.

You lean out into your room, modesty preserved by a rather fluffy towel Mercy got you last Christmas, and look at Junkrat. He's still nude, trying to figure out how to turn on the television.

"Junkrat, where are your shorts?" you ask.

He freezes up, and a sheepish grin crosses his face.

"Well, y'see, Hoggie and I were doing some spring cleaning. He was having a blue over his missing books, and I was right spewin about how he were tossing out me spare designs, and, well, he knocked over some o' me more volatile beauties, an' we both got light right up. Hoggie was able to put us out before anything were too damaged, but lost me pants all the same."

You blink a little at the story.

"So you and Roadhog got in a fight, knocked over a bomb, and lost your clothes." You're trying to imagine arguing with Roadhog, and it's not quite working.

"Well, Hoggie was alright in the end. 'E had a spare pair o' overalls by his bike," says Junkrat.

"But you didn't have any spare clothes," you add. It's becoming clear now, and you're struggling to hide the amusement you feel.

"Well, no," he says, like you're pulling his teeth out. "So I were standing around in the motor pool, right in my starkers, and I knew it were only matter o' time before some uptight sheila came in and raised a fuss. Me own bunk's clear across the base," he jerks a thumb towards the south side, "so I figure I'd crash at yours. Least until I can get me shorts," he adds.

You give in. Laughter falls from your lips, startling Junkrat and nearly causing the towel to fall. You catch the towel at the last moment, still chuckling.

"You," you say, voice a little light, "are mad as a cut snake, you know that?"

He smiles, showing off a full set of chompers you're surprised he still has.

"Oh, you know I can't resist when you talk Aussie to me."

"I'll be back in a minute," you say, moving to the tub and checking the temperature. Still warm. On second thought, you drain the bath, settling for a shower.

You have better ways to spend your evening now.


	2. Ice to Meet You

God it's freezing. You force back a sneeze and hunch your shoulders in closer, trying to conserve heat. You grew used to the mild temperature of California when you were finishing up your doctorate, and now you curse the perpetually sunny skies and wonderfully warm air.

Because Antarctica is too damn cold.

It's a great honor, they said. It'll be fun, they said.

The next time you see the old professor that recommended you for this watch point you'll throttle them.

A yawn comes up this time, and you try to stifle it. You've been chaining flights together, going from Cali to Mexico to Brazil to Argentina. Then you got on a boat, a goddamn boat in one of the coldest oceans in the world, and couldn't fall asleep because of motion sickness.

It was a Tuesday when you last sleep. You think. You check your phone and wince. It's almost Thursday now.

This time when you sneeze you let it out. No sense in fighting the inevitable.

A hand reaches over, holding a tissue. You gratefully accept it and blow your nose. Much better. "Thanks," you mutter. There maybe a God after all.

"We wouldn't want you getting a cold now, would we?" God, why do you dangle hope and then jerk it away? "I'm not good at ice breakers," the voice offers. What did you do to deserve this? The voice is slightly accented. Chinese, you think. You groan and close your eyes.

"Please. I've been awake for thirty four hours now and the last thing I need is suffer through puns."

"Sorry..." the voice trails off and you sigh. It's the fatigue talking, you know, but snapping like that was still mean. You open your eyes again.

"Listen, I'm sorry I snapped like that. I have had a _very_ long day," you manage to say, turning towards the voice, "and I'm. Not. My. Self..." You trail off, looking at the speaker.

"Well, I hope you feel better!" Mei-Ling Zhou says. To you. The scientist that you cite in every other paper you wrote in grad school. Mei-Ling Zhou, the researcher you have an entirely platonic crush on.

You feel a little something in you go pitter patter. It's probably not your heart. You think.

"Hello? Are you still awake?" She leans in, staring at your face. Did you think that it was cold? It's hot now. Too hot. You feel your blood run up to your face and your body go into panic mode.

"OhmygodhihowareyoudoingcanIgetyourautograph?" you blurt out, scrambling for a piece of paper. Or a tattoo needle, so she can scrawl something into your arm. You know. If there are no other options.

"Uh, could you repeat that, please?" she scratches her head, tilting it. "It was-"

"Ah, right," you interrupt, taking a breath. Play it cool. Pretend you're not starstruck and mentally giggling in delight. "I'm a fan. Didn't quite think." You inhale, thankful the air is cold. It will help get your mind back in order. "What I was trying to say is I am sorry for snapping at you. My lack of sleep does not excuse my conduct." You extend a hand and hold in a squeal of delight. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Zhou."

She shakes it, smiling. "It's nice to meet you too."

You both keep holding hands for a bit. It gets awkward and you both drop your hands out, uncomfortable. Quick, think of something clever to say! You dig through your mind, trying to come up with something.

"You seem cool?" You cringe internally.

She smiles though, and you melt a little inside. "I think think this is the beginning of something of something A-Mei-Zing."


	3. Bomb dot exe

"All I'm saying is that I think you need a little more bang. I mean, you've got the kit for it. Why not have a little fun?" The bomber's eyes don't move from their focus as he attends to a minute flaw in his work.

" _Ya basta_ , leave me alone," Sombra responds, waving away his comment with a free hand. "I know what I like, _ya ya_? No need to mess with perfection?" she finishes, examining the nails, admiring their shine under the light.

"Just a shame," he grumbles, capping the bottle of nail polish. "Righto, done there. Now do me," he says, spreading his right hand on the table and tapping his foot. "Hurry up, ain't got all day now."

Sombra sighs and picks up a bottle of extra durable base coat. "Why do you even bother painting the things, _amigo_? Not like anyone's gonna care if you've got some icky nails," she comments, spreading an even layer across his thumb, "And you chip like crazy, so you need to replace this like every day, right?"

"Ya ain't wrong," he concedes, pointing with his other hand. "Thing is, _I_ don't like lookin' at 'em, roight?" he shudders a little, looking at the deformed cuticles. "Nasty buggers, an' the less I see o' them the better. And I figure why not make 'em pretty while I'm at it?"

"Eh, _tiene sentido_. Where'd you get this stuff anyway?" Sombra asks, moving onto the next finger.

"Nicked it," Junkrat says easily.

"Yeah, but from where?" Sombra asks, raising an eyebrow. "You can't exactly walk into a Hot Topic and chat up the salesgirl, _amigo_."

"Eh, got the base coat," he points to the bottle currently being applied to his nails, "from Widow. Couldn't find anything more colorful."

"Serious?" Sombra says, jaw dropping. "You stole from _la_ _araña_?"

"Yeah, but sheila's got half a dozen other bottles, so I think she'll be fine, roight?" Junkrat questions. After a brief moment he looks up from his nails to Sombra. "Roight?" he asks again.

She just shakes her head and finishes off the nail. "Other hand, please." Junkrat dutifully places his left hand on the table. "What about the rest?" She motions to the collection of glass bottles arrayed next to the table.

"Eh, picked up some of it when me and Hoggie were runnin' through London. Smashed the window of a real nice shop, grabbed some bottles an' ran."

"That's you have Chanel," Sombra mutters, dabbing away some excess polish. "The rest?"

"Eh, little bit of thieving here n' there. Went on a spree in Paris, messed up New York, and had some fun down in Rio. Picked up that," he points to a light blue bottle, "when we were tryin' to stop the bobbies from launching a satellite."

"When'd you have the time to do that?" Sombra asked, raising an eyebrow. "Thought bossman said for us to stay focused on the objective?"

"Eh, Hoggie had it," Junkrat waves his right hand around hand, checking the nails for any wetness. "An' how many times am I going to be able to rifle around in their base?"

"And whaddya find?" Sombra says, leaning in.

"Eh, not much," he says. "Workshop, a mess hall, and a few livin' quarters. Where I found that, actually," he adds pointing to the light blue bottle. "Some sheila's room in white n' blue."

" _Verdad_? You stole this from the Vishkar chick?" Sombra puts away the base coat and stare at Junkrat. "They bought that color, y'know. They _really_ don't want us messing around with it."

"Filthy suits," Junkrat spits, face screwing up with distaste. "Can't own a color. Be like ownin' a word. Make no sense. Ey, me fingers ain't finished," he says, wiggling his right hand. "Still gotta preen."

" _Ya ya_ ," Sombra says, rolling her eyes, "You'll look like a peacock when I'm done."

"Damn roight," Junkrat laughs, putting his right hand down again. "Got any patterns you wanted ta try out?"

"A few," Sombra says, reaching for the glass bottles. "How'd you feel about video games, _amigo_?"


	4. Ms Blue Sky

That's it. You've had it. The field operatives have finally gone too far. Your friends are trying to calm you down, trying to keep you from doing something you'll regret. It's far too late for calming down.

You stomp through the base, looking for the 'special' mess hall. They keep field agents and support agents separated. Most of the time, that's a good thing. Keeps the brazen adrenaline junkies from terrifying the nine to fivers into submission. You have a friend up in medical who has horror stories from working with Doctor Zeigler. Normally, you're glad that you never have to meet the faces of Overwatch,

Normally.

Normally when the field agents hand over their gear for maintenance, it's not given back in a series of shoe boxes filled with what looks like missile debris. Normally, agents don't find a way to meld tungsten plates to delicate electronics _without dying_. Normally, your job is very close to that of an auto mechanic's, _not a forensic specialist's_.

Ah. Here it is. You kick open the door (thankful for the easy-swing hinges) and look around, searching for your target. Something is whispering at the back of your mind, but you can't hear it over the rage flowing through you. You skim over the crowd of heads, ignoring waves and questioning looks.

There.

She's laughing across from Reinhardt, blissfully unaware of the sorrow she left in your hands. Like everything is hunky doory, a-okay.

SYSTEMS ARE NOT GREEN ACROSS THE BOARD, DAMNIT!

You walk up to her table, waiting to be noticed. Eventually, she looks up, and has a questioning look on her face.

"Hello?" Fareeha sounds confused as to why you're here. You'll fix that.

"HOW!?" you shout, startling everyone. "Just." Words escape you. "How?"

"Um...," She glances at Reinhardt, who shrugs.

"You took a multi-million dollar piece of technology and reduced it to scrap!" you say, shaking both hands in front of you. "Plates of nano-reinforced tungsten, shattered beyond salvage! On-board dumb-AI's, literally decades of development each, now just so many bits of silicone! The rocket boosters, the most heat-resistant part of the suit, turned into slag! I read the mission briefing," you've started pacing, flailing your hands around in an attempt to get across one tenth of the rage you feel, "and it was supposed to be a simple escort job. Take some fancy doodad from one building to the next. More of a ceremonial role than anything else. And yet," you spin, raising your voice and staring Fareeha Amari in the eye, "instead of a fully functioning set of power armor, you bring back the shrapnel formerly-known-as the Raptora suit!"

You take a moment to catch your breath and sit down across from her. "Hell, how did you survive? That thing can take hits that would rupture your organs against it, and yet you're here," you turn to face her, "eating a goddamn-" you're cut off as the large german man starts bellowing out laughter. Several other agents have joined in. The cowboy and the brit are holding each other for support, laughing hard enough to be out of breath. The cyborg is chuckling along with the Omnic, both restrained in their amusement. The DJ and the streamer are not, giggling away, and you notice that both are holding their phones, pointed at you.

The voice in the back of your head is loud enough to be heard now. Or maybe the anger is quieter. Either way, it informs you that you have walked into a room of some of the most dangerous individuals alive (where you damn sure weren't supposed to), told one of them off in a truly spectacular manner (which you're pretty sure might be court-martial worthy), and it's all been recorded (which you think might mean you're fired).

You quickly turn to Fareeha, phrases and apologies whirling around in your head. They all die unsaid when your jaw drops.

Pharah, scourge of the skies, dispenser of justice, is laughing, wiping a tear away from the Wadjet tattoo on her right eye. It's an odd sight. Most of the time you see her, her face is set in stone, all cold determination and righteousness.

Now, she's... amused.

"What's so funny?" you ask. She just starts laughing harder.

"What's going on here?" an old, grandmotherly voice rings out. Fareeha stops laughing suddenly, craning her head to look around you. You follow her gaze.

Ana Amari. Nominal third in command of Overwatch. Brilliant field medic, more brilliant sniper. Old as Overwatch itself.

And you've just broke half a dozen unspoken rules to bad-mouth her daughter.

Your mouth goes dry and your face flushes as the panic sets in. This was a terrible idea, your friends were alright, the voice of reason in the back of your head is busy saying 'I told you so' and the rest of your head is hoping you'll have still have a job in the coming hours.

"Techie over here," the cowboy manages to gasp out, "was talkin' to your daughter and right laid her out for losin' her suit."

"Is that right?" she says, some unknown note rising in her voice as she walks over to your table. Her face is unreadable.

"Agent McCree is blowing this-"

"It's not what it sounds like Mama-"

You and Fareeha both stop talking at the same time.

"You can"

"Go ahead-"

"Oh my god!" the streamer laughs, "This is _totally_ going onto my channel!"

"NO!" You both yell, twisting to stare at young korean girl. You then stare at each other, surprised.

"Why are you-"

"How are you-"

"Enough," Ana says, clapping her hands between the two of you and making you both flinch. "You first," she points at you, "and then Fareeha will explain what happened, does that sound good?" she smiles. You decide to begin.

"I was given Ms Amari's equipment-"

"Which one?" the brit shouts, to general laughter, including the elder Amari. You flush.

"I was assigned to repair the Raptora suit, which normally isn't a problem. This time, the suit came back to me in such small pieces that repairing it would be more time-consuming and expensive than building a new one from scratch." Ana chuckles a little and motions for me to go on. "In a moment of displeasure I decide to talk to the agent who had returned it, and I used less than civil language to express my displeasure." You think you phrased that well.

"And what about you, _ya_ _danaaya_?" Ana looks at Fareeha questioningly. The younger Amari grimaces but begins.

"The escort mission was interrupted when Talon attacked. All of their top agents were there, along with a pair of Australian mercenaries now identified as Junkrat and Roadhog. The later hooked me out of the air," her fingers curl into a fist and her mouth twists into a grimace, "after which the former covered me with explosives and threw me away, cackling madly. Said explosives went off, tore me to shreds, and only the prompt intervention of Doctor Zeigler kept me alive."

Well you feel like shit now. Here you are, complaining about more work when a field agent nearly died. You drop your head to the table and groan.

"My _sincerest_ apologies, Ms. Amari. If I had know that you had been stripped in such a manner I would've-" your mind catches up with you mouth and you stop talking.

"Intrestin' way of puttin' it," the cowboy calls, laughing a deep belly laugh.

"Mind out of the gutter, Jesse!" Fareeha calls back, face flushing red.

"Anyway, it looks like a simple moment of passion, no?" the elder Amari cuts in, smiling at both of you. "Are we both willing to put this behind you?"

"Yes," Fareeha and you say together, eager to get out of this situation.

"Good," she says, patting each of you on the shoulder. "Now then, I need to have a talk with my daughter and I believe you," she stares into your eyes with her own orb, "need to start ordering parts for a new Raptora suit."

"Yes ma'am!" You salute, getting up and heading for the door.

Just as you're moving out the door, you catch a comment made by one of the field agents.

"Who were they?"


	5. Pleading for Mercy

You walk into the medical wing, yawning away your typical morning cobwebs. You hope that it would be empty, partially for the peace of solitude and partially for the assurance that a certain blond doctor won't be working herself into an early grave, but said hope is quickly dashed when you hear mutterings in German from the back office. You sigh and head to the small coffee machine and electronic kettle. This isn't the first time she's spent a night to catch up on dictations. It isn't even the first one you've personally seen. By now, you know (as well as most of the staff) know the drill. Once the coffee is brewed and the water is near-boiling, you prepare two drinks. One coffee, two sugars, and a peppermint tea, with a healthy dollop of cream. Once that is prepared you make your way to the source of the miscellaneous German drowning out the bird song.

Doctor Angela Zeigler is muttering into a mike while staring at a notepad positively caked in messy handwriting, eyelids at half mast. What hair isn't pulled back into a messy ponytail is scattered, drifting errantly around her face. Designer-brand bags hang beneath each eye, and the signs of bloodshot ring both iris. She doesn't even notice you until you place the tea infront of her and rap the desk with your knuckles.

"Angela, what time is it?" you ask. Normally you call her Doctor Zeigler, but that's for when you're both awake and coherent.

After turning off the mike and marking her place on the page, she twists her arm up to check her watch and grimaces. "Ah, around seven?"

"When did your shift start?" you ask, resigned to a truly depressing answer.

"Sometime last morning," she answers, holding in a yawn. Barely. You point to the tea, which she takes and sniffs. At the scent she gets a confused look and stares at you. "Peppermint will send me right off to sleep," she moans. "Give me some _kaffe_."

"Twenty four consecutive hours of wakefulness is _not_ healthy, and you know it," you counter, pointing at her with the hand that holds the coffee. "Besides," you add, "this one's for me."

You chug the drinks, forcing past the bitterness. You've never enjoyed the taste, treating the beverage like a drug, 'for emergencies only'. After you finish you toss the syrofoam cup into a trash can already half-full and motion towards the doctor. "Do you need assistance getting to your quarters or should I call Fareeha?"

"Ugh... don't bother her," she mutters, dragging herself up and moving towards the door. "I'll get there myself." You decide not to mention that Fareeha is probably awake and exercising right now, and instead cough politely and point to the forgotten tea.

"Ah, yes, of course," she says, this time not bothering to conceal a yawn. Once she has the tea and walks out the door, you pick up her notepad. Nearly illegible, but you've become fluent over the course of the past few months. You sit down in her chair, read the passage she stopped at, and turn on the mike.

"Subject 083 suffered from four solid projectile wounds, three exit and one entry. After the entry wound wound was cleared of shrapnel, the Caedus Staff mark two point seven point three was applied for a period of seventeen point nine seconds." You continue reading out the mangled mess of German, medical shorthand, and occasionally english to the mic, at peace with the moment, simply covering for your co-worker.


	6. Vishcolor

"Those scoundrels!" Satya hissed, violently and precisely re-organizing her room for the fourth time. "That mercenary has no idea what he's stolen!"

"Um... love? What's going on here?" Tracer pokes her head in and raises an eyebrow at the not-quite messy room. "Didja loose something?"

"I do not _lose_ things," Satya says, spinning to face the brit with murder in her eyes. "Vishkar Architects do not misplace, forget about, scatter, mix, muss, or otherwise tolerate disorder with their personal items. This was an act of robbery, and I will see the culprit found!"

She notices the brit backing up and takes a moment to compose herself, closing her eyes and taking a breath to calm herself. Once the physical symptoms of rage have been suppressed, she re-opens her eyes and looks at Tracer.

"A vial of my personal nail polish has been taken. The theft would have taken place within the past few days, between the hours of six in the morning and nine o'clock in the afternoon. I would greatly appreciate your assistance with my thorough of the premises of the Watchpoint," Satya says, maintaining a calm, even tone. "Now if you would excuse me I need to start reviewing security footage with Athena." She brushes past Tracer and walks towards the command center with long, even strides. After a moment of confusion, Tracer sprints after her.

"Wait wait wait. This is all over a bottle of nail polish?" Confusion spreads across the brit's face. "If ya need a touch up, I'm sure Hana or Angela have-"

"It was not just any bottle of nail polish that was stolen, Ms Oxton," Satya interrupts, staring straight forward. "It was my personal nail polish."

"And what does that 'ave to do with anythin'?" Tracer asks, exasperated. "Was it Channel or somethin'?"

"If only," Satya says. "Vishkar owns a spectrum of colors within the HSV color scale. Upon certification, each Architect is assigned their own shade. Their uniforms, jewelry, and other personal items are all made to carry that particular shade."

"Wouldn'tcha run out of colours?" Tracer asks, staring sideways at Satya. "And can ya even own a color. Seems like that's-"

"It is legally permitted," Satya interrupts again. "As the number of active Architects is fairly low and the number of colors owned by Vishkar comparatively high, the issue of overlapping has not yet been a problem. My nail polish is of my own specific shade, and there is quite literally none other like it."

"So someone's running around with your colour. That a problem?" Tracer asks, incredulous.

" _Yes_ ," Satya responds, glaring daggers at Tracer. "That color is as much of an identifier for me as my name. Even ignoring the invasion of my identity, that color is at least partially the intellectual property of Vishkar, and the theft or use of that color is akin to the theft or use of hard-light technology: completely unforgivable."

"Wait," Tracer says, holding up a hand. "You say it went missin' a few days ago?"

"To the best of my knowledge," Satya replies coldly.

"That was when Talon tried to stop the satellite from goin' up, right? Think one of theit agents took it?" Tracer offers. "I mean, no one here's gonna nick your gear. Makes more sense for one of them to grab it. Occam's razor and all that."

"But why?" Satya asks, furrowing her brow. "Reaper and Doomfist do not have exposed nails, thus they would not need to steal it. Roadhog was in sight of the payload for the entirety of the engagement, and I believe you had an eye on Widowmaker, correct?" The brit nods in affirmation. "Winston was busy trying to counter-hack, so presumably Sombra would be too busy to walk through my quarters. That... leaves..." Satya trails off, staring into space. Her face goes slack as a feeling of profound helplessness descends.

"Um, Satya? Hello, anyone home?" Tracer waves her hand in front of the architect's face. "I thinl you were heading to say that-"

"Junkrat," Satya whimpers. "Junkrat is running around with my nail polish."


	7. The ZenyattaJunkrat Experience

"Whatcha' want, ya stinkin' bot?" Junkrat takes a moment from his bombs to snarl at the intruder.

"I came here to meditate," Zenyatta replies, tone even and calm, unperturbed by the six feet and change of Australian criminal.

"Well, this _my_ spot! Mine! And I don't want no stinkin' cans on it!" Junkrat hisses, fingers edging towards completed grenades. "Bugger off!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Zenyatta says, firm but polite. "I find that the view makes this place particularly close to the Iris, and thus ideal for meditation."

"And _I'm_ using it to build me babes!" Junkrat holds up a half-completed cherry bomb as an example. "Bugger off before I shove one up your arse!"

"There is quite a lot of room on this rooftop," Zenyatta says, ignoring Junkrat's posturing. "Perhaps I can take the far corner and meditate there, while you can continue your construction."

Realizing the Omnic won't be moving anytime soon, Junkrat throws up his hands in exasperation. "Fine, have your feckin' power nap! 'Member, I'm watching you," he adds, pointing fingers at his eyes, then Zenyatta's.

The omnic nods and moves to the corner of the roof. At first, the tension from the junker is palpable, betrayed with every extra glance, every nervous tic, and how his hand is never far from a live explosive.

But as time passes, and minutes turn into hours and the robot simply floats, content to be silent, the junker becomes lax. Fewer glances are sent towards the omnic and more attention is paid to the explosives. Occasionally a giggle erupts as shells come together, and the pile of parts shrink as the collection of completed bombs increases.

Soon enough, the parts are gone and the junker's stock is filled. He fills a pair of duffel bags and remembers the omnic.

Zenyatta has not moved from his position. A light glow emanates from his body, and the junker moves closer, curious.

"I see you have finished putting together your explosives, Junkrat. Would you like to join me?" Zenyatta asks, never turning away from the sunset.

The junker snorts in disdain. "Too borin' for me. How'd you stand it, sittin' around?"

"When I meditate, the world falls away, leaving only me and my thoughts. It is relaxing," Zenyatta explains. "I stay still because it is easier for me. The Bastion unit, for example," Junkrat twitches at the mention of the other robot, "prefers to play with Ganymede."

"So you don't have ta sit still for hours?" the junker questions.

"That is correct," the omnic responds. There is a silence.

"Sounds a lot like when I'm workin' on me bombs," Junkrat says, before catching himself and scowling. "Anyway, I'm leavin' to where there innit any stinkin' bots!" He turns on his peg leg and moves towards the rooftop access door.

"Could you explain why you hate me so?" Zenyatta asks. The junker stops. Then he turns around.

"Innit obvious?" he asks, anger edging into his voice as he advances on the robot. "You n' the other tin cans blew me home into a wasteland. Lost me arm and leg 'cause o' you, lost me mum and pop, went through hell tryin' to stay alive in the Wastes! That enough for ya, tin can?" he shouts, no more than a foot from the monk.

Zenyatta is still staring at the sunset. "You understand I was not made until after the war."

"What's it matter?" the junker snorts. "You could still flip out on us."

"You are afraid I will turn on you because of a God program?" the omnic inquiries.

"Yeah." The answer is flippant.

"Then I would like you to put a bomb in me." The response is as even as the omnic ever is.

"What?" The junker takes a step back in surprise.

"I would like you to place a bomb within me, one that you have the detonator for. That way, if I do get possessed by a God program, you can stop me." Finally, the monk turns to look at the junker. "Will that lower your fear of me?"

"I ain't afraid o' you!" the junker sputers.

"Of course not," the monk says, "But would having a kill switch for me make you more comfortable?"

"... yeah," the junker says eventually.

"Then please make a small bomb I can wear around my neck, that way you can shut me down should I lose control." The omnic walks up to the junker, barely reaching his chin. "I will trust you not to detonate it prematurely."

Wordlessly, Junkrat goes back to his stock of bombs. From them, he takes out a small orb, no larger than a tangerine, and tosses it to Zenyatta. The monk places the orb between his neck servos and and nods.

"I hope this can be a new beginning between us, Jamison."

With that, the omnic floats away, leaving the junker to stare at the detonator in his hands.


End file.
